by Merle Nygate
‘Can I ask you something, Sahar?’ she says. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all evening.’
I nod. I’m waiting for her to ask why I’m so nervous. I don’t know what I’ll say.
Petra says, ‘Why do you hang your clothes on the hanger inside out?’
I follow her gaze. My wardrobe door is open. My dresses and trousers are hanging inside out. I’m confused for a moment. We always do that, don’t we, brother? We do that so that when the bombs fall, the houses shake and the windows shatter; when the dust rises up and billows like clouds of sand in a storm; the dirt and debris doesn’t cover our clothes.
‘That is the way we do it at home,’ I say.
‘To keep them clean,’ Petra says. ‘Anyway, thank you for sharing your poem with us and don’t forget what I said. If there is ever a time that I can help you, remember I am your friend.’
42
M40 Motorway – The Next Day
Spies love cars. That’s what Alon had taught Petra: ‘There’s no better location than a moving car for getting into someone’s head with the goal of rearranging it. The closed space invites confidences, the shared momentum suggests intimacy, and the controlled environment gives the spy the upper hand; far, far better than a restaurant where a waiter is guaranteed to interrupt at the most delicate time in a meeting; the moment when a spy is teasing out a tangled secret that makes the agent wince with remorse for his betrayal.
Well, a 90-minute run between Wallingford and central London wasn’t exactly Land’s End to John O’Groats but Petra reckoned it was good enough. It needed to be because that was all Petra was getting.
She’d got a call from Rafi at 1am that morning. He’d briefed her that if Sahar complained of a toothache at breakfast, Petra was to volunteer to drive her to London. There, Petra would drop off Sahar at a Harley Street address and leave her there. He was insistent about the last element; she had to leave Sahar in Harley Street and go to meet Rafi. That was clever of them; taking away her chance of lingering to see who was turning up to meet Sahar. After Bath, Benny and Rafi were being careful; but it was too late.
‘Sure, understood,’ Petra had said. Co-operative, obedient, a good soldier who didn’t question orders.
Sitting by her side in the car as it bowled down the M40, Petra glanced over at Sahar, hunched in the seat, black rucksack planted between her feet as she stroked the seatbelt that crossed her narrow chest.
The night before, when Petra had gone to the girl’s room and then walked her down to the pavilion, Petra had gone through every trick she knew to try to get the girl to open up to her, all to no avail. But the girl was certainly in trouble and it bothered Petra.
Ever since Petra had been at the street party where she’d saved Callum’s life Petra had had flashbacks. Memories of the texture and summer meadow scent of the child’s hair mixing with sour sweat and bile. These sensations ambushed idle moments and made Petra’s heart race, notably when she was thinking about Sahar and the operational puzzle. Was it a premonition or maybe it was guilt? Whatever it was, Petra had a strong sense that Sahar needed protecting even if it was only from herself.
‘Sahar, I really loved the poem you told last night, the one about friendship. You know, I’ve been thinking about it ever since.’
‘Thank you. I like it too, there are many other poems, I like –’
‘Do you know the word, “trust”, Sahar?’
‘I think I understand, yes.’
‘I think that trust is the most important part of friendship. It is like belief. You trust that a friend will be kind and act in your best interests. Sahar, I want to be your friend, like in the poem, so I have to say what I feel; I am worried about you. I think there are events in your life that are troubling to you, that you are perhaps in a difficult situation.’
The girl was silent. Her eyes were looking straight ahead and when Petra glanced from windscreen to passenger she caught the rigid face, the glistening eyes that heralded tears.
‘I have friends,’ Sahar said ‘and family.’ She spoke with the conviction of the child who would clasp white-knuckled hands over ears and squeeze eyes shut.
‘Of course you do. You have your friends here and your family back home and your brother in America,’ Petra said with lightness, trying to ease Sahar back into a comfortable place, aware that she’d gone too far too quickly and needed to step back. Ahead the traffic had thinned out and Petra was able to accelerate, all the while framing a gentle question in her mind.
‘Does your brother like America?’
‘He’s not there, America.’ It was a whisper. Petra barely caught it.
‘Not there? Is he here? On holiday?’
‘I, yes, I do trust you, Petra and I know that you are my friend. There are things... I cannot say. But I do not go dentist. I am going to see my brother now.’
Petra felt her heart race and deliberately unclenched her hands around the steering wheel. She shouldn’t be too eager, too interested, too concerned.
‘Great, well, brilliant, and I don’t blame you for telling a story. I’m not at all sure that Deanna would have let us out if you’d said you wanted to see your brother. Remember the fuss she made when Mfoniso’s mother wanted to take him out for the weekend? I promise that you can trust me not to say what you’re doing today. I hope you’re going to have lunch with him somewhere nice? How long is he here for?’
‘I don’t know, not too long I think,’ Sahar slumped back in her seat like a punctured balloon; the strain of telling the truth seemed to have deflated her. Petra could have banged her fists against the steering wheel; it felt like for every tantalising advance she made she got pushed back and now they were coming down the West Way on to the Marylebone Road. In minutes she’d be turning right into Harley Street and the opportunity would be over; the door would be slammed again.
Petra said, ‘Even if he’s only here for a little while, the important thing is that you’re seeing him and that he knows you’re among friends. I’ve got an idea. I want you to give him something from England. I was going to give one to all the students at the end of the course, but I’ve got a spare one in my bag and I want you to give it to your brother.’
‘What is it?’
‘Can you reach my bag, on the back seat?’ Petra said. ‘It’s in the front right flap, in a plastic case.’
Sahar squirmed around and reached into Petra’s bag, she pulled out the plastic box with the £2 Shakespeare commemorative coin. The gold glinted through the presentation case.
‘Like it?’ Petra said.
‘It is beautiful,’ Sahar said.
’That’s Shakespeare, our greatest poet; there was an anniversary a few years ago and I bought the coins. Do you see the words on it? “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” I thought the students would like it.’
‘Thank you, thank you. You are so kind, Petra. And I am so happy to have a gift for my brother. A special gift from England.’
‘And I’m really happy to be able to give it to you,’ Petra had turned into Harley Street and was reading the numbers on the houses. ‘Thrilled. Do you have a special name for him?’
‘Wasim Nadir, it means Wasim most loved. I tell him he is my favourite brother... I have only him.’
Petra glanced over at the girl as she began to manoeuvre the car into a parking place; Sahar’s eyes were welling up again.
‘That’s so sweet,’ Petra said. ‘And now here we are, safe and sound. Text me when you’re ready to be picked up, and don’t forget to give your brother the present.’
43
West Hampstead, London – The Next Day
With his forehead pressed against the tiles of the shower, Eli felt the water run down his back. First under hot and then cold water, Eli tried to shake off the sleepless night wishing it would slough off as easily as the drops of water on his body. Watching the water swirl around his feet and listening to the drain swallow it away, Eli concentrated on what was positive;
telling himself that, in spite of Red Cap, Sweetbait at least was okay. Sweetbait was on track. Sweetbait was near the finishing line. That’s all he needed to remember.
And even if there were a couple of hurdles that they’d stumbled over – such as being spotted by Trainer in Bath and the brother – that was the nature of any operation. Rarely, if ever, did everything run according to plan. That’s why the most important skill for an intelligence officer was to be flexible and able to adapt to changing circumstances. Yuval’s unorthodox yet inspired idea for Sweetbait to meet Wasim had worked. The boy was still at the safe house but shortly he’d be on his way back to Kansas on an evening flight. Once there he’d be monitored by the Washington squad and gently recruited under a false flag.
Reasons to be cheerful.
By the time that Eli had dressed in his freshly dry-cleaned suit, he felt ready for the day and whatever it may bring.
That morning there was to be yet another meeting with Milne at The Travellers Club. If, and hopefully when, he became head of London station Eli had already decided that he’d ask Milne to put him forward for membership. It would be a fine thing to bring visiting heads of station there for drinks.
The purpose of this meeting was diplomatic; the Israelis were going to be introduced to the new CIA liaison officer, the replacement for Pen who had disappeared into the void where intelligence officers go when they no longer fit the culture of the organisation.
Still feeling the effects of sleeplessness Eli took a taxi and mused as it chugged along and morning London went to work. In spite of political changes, Eli observed a sense of order in the British capital, perhaps allied to the temperate weather or perhaps the phlegmatic nature of the British. Overhead, the sky was a soft grey; it was easy on the eye and soothing to the soul.
Eli wondered how Yuval was getting on in Paris where he was working a defection and debrief from an Iranian nuclear scientist. It was a volunteer operation, a walk-in with all the associated complications; among them was that the scientist wanted to live in France so that he could send his daughter to the Conservatoire in Paris. Trying to satisfy the scientist’s resettlement requirements was causing a raft of problems hence the need for Yuval’s expertise. The only way to get residency for the defector was to share intelligence product with the French Security Services. However, since the DGSE had more leaks than a colander and was devoutly and institutionally anti-Semitic, Yuval had his hands full.
With Yuval in Paris, Eli had no choice but to take Rafi to the meeting; as Yuval said, it was in the interests of protocol that two intelligence officers should meet one incoming CIA man. It was even more important to establish contact with only ten days to go to Sweetbait.
Standing on the corner of the Strand, Eli watched Rafi stride towards him. Wearing his new charcoal suit, he’d obviously struggled with the tie; the knot was too small and too tight but the suit fitted him well. Not quite the British gentleman or any gentleman come to that, but Rafi looked smart enough.
‘Yallah achi, let’s go, dude.’ Rafi clapped Eli over the shoulders and he tried not to flinch.
‘Do you want a couple of moments before we go in?’ Eli said.
‘No, I’m fine. All we’re here to do is meet the new American,’ Rafi said. ‘And it’s not the time to tell them that we know who the threat is because we’re running her but ein baayot, no problem; we’ll stop her before it happens.’
‘Not funny, Rafi. And not secure, either.’
Rafi drew a slim black box out of his inside jacket pocket. It could have been an external drive; a white light blinked on it.
‘Relax, I was just kidding,’ Rafi said and put the sound buffer back in his pocket.
‘I’d be grateful if you could try to keep your sense of humour under control for the duration of the meeting.’ Eli stalked in the direction of the club.
Unlike previous meetings with Pen, this new American was early; they found her sitting on one of the sofas in the library engrossed in a copy of Country Life. She had a round face, almost cherubic and introduced herself with hearty hand pumping and eye twinkling. In her late thirties, she could have passed for younger and she spoke with the twang of the Deep South.
‘Real good to meet you,’ Charlene said. ‘Call me Charlie, everybody else does. Helluva place this,’ she said in a husky voice. ‘There’s so much history everywhere.’
Eli was on his guard. This level of bonhomie and wide-eyed wonderment was not to be trusted. There was no way that Charlie would have got a job at this level without both experience and a superior education.
‘It’s very good to meet you,’ Eli said. ‘But if you have a passion for history, some day you should come and visit us. I’d be delighted to show you around.’
‘I’d love that,’ the American smiled. She shook hands with Rafi, exchanged pleasantries and they sat down and waited for Milne.
‘I’m still finding my way around.’ Charlie laid a leather folder in front of her at right angles to her seat. She crossed one trousered leg over the other and fixed Eli with hard green eyes that were in contrast to her voice. ‘There’s a heck of a lot to take in so I hope you’ll forgive me when we get started if I ask you to clarify issues already discussed with my predecessor.’
‘Of course,’ Eli said. ‘How is Pen by the way?’
‘Fine, as far as I know,’ she said. ‘Enjoying his career break in upstate New York.’
‘Send him our best wishes,’ Eli said.
‘I sure will.’
By tacit agreement, the conversation stayed general while they waited for Milne to arrive. To Eli’s profound relief, Rafi stuck to his brief and didn’t treat Charlie to his usual gallantry; it seemed that he must have not only read and but also absorbed the diplomatic briefing manual that gave guidance on dealing with American women. They were comfortably discussing exercise regimes and health drink tips when Milne came into the room.
‘Good morning, please accept my apologies for being so late. I had an early morning briefing and then hit appalling traffic even with a blue light on the car.’ He looked flustered; there was a stiff set to his jaw but ever the consummate professional he recovered with speed. ‘I see you’ve ordered coffee and have introduced yourselves. Excellent,’ Milne said. ‘Another cup please, and another pot I think.’ Without looking at the man, Milne gestured to a hovering waiter.
‘May I introduce my colleague, Rafi Shomer,’ Eli said to Milne. Rafi stood up and shook hands and smiled.
‘Delighted to meet you,’ Milne said. ‘No Yuval? Don’t tell me he’s been recalled?’
‘No, he’s responsible for the whole of Europe at the moment so we don’t get his full attention.’
‘In that case, let us begin,’ Milne sighed. ‘Just to recap for Charlene, our Israeli friends have advised us that there is a potential high-grade terrorist threat from a Hamas splinter group which is allegedly working with Al Qaeda. It’s something that’s going to take place on mainland UK – am I correct?’ He looked to Eli for corroboration. ‘And in order to evaluate it effectively, our Israeli partners want – if, indeed such intelligence exists – the raw data collected from the Qatar Embassy which is where Hamas have their European operations desk. Now, the problem for us is that even with the Five Eyes combined intelligence matrix, we haven’t come up with anything that suggests that this threat actually might be real. So, what are we to do?’
‘What about the Birmingham address we gave you?’ Eli said.
‘They were already on the MI5 watch list and were all low threat.’
There was a shape in the doorway. It was the retired soldier from the front desk. He came in, stood at Milne’s elbow and passed a piece of paper to him. Milne read it and frowned as he looked up.
‘It seems there is someone from your embassy at the front desk, Eli. You’re needed.’
‘What?’ Eli said.
Eli looked at Rafi who was already on his feet.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing important,’ Rafi said and wa
s out of the room in swift strides.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Eli said, his mind racing through the likely disasters that would demand this interruption. ‘Shall we go on?’
‘Oh, why not wait till Rafi comes back?’ Charlie said with a benign smile. ‘Then we won’t have to repeat ourselves.’
‘Very sound,’ Milne said, ‘very sound indeed. How are you finding London, Charlene? Is your family here with you?’
‘Call me Charlie, please, only my mother calls me Charlene,’ the CIA woman said.
Milne kept up a stream of smooth chit-chat as if this was a social event, as if they weren’t all wondering why the meeting had been interrupted. In response Eli mumbled comments about the scenic beauty of the Lake District and kept his eyes on the door. Just as Milne was reeling off a list of the best international schools in the capital, Rafi strode into the room.
‘I’m afraid Eli has to go and you’ll be left with me,’ Rafi said with a relaxed smile that shared with the group the challenges of working to an exacting boss. ‘We’ve just received an urgent message from Yuval about a European operation. He needs Eli’s language skills.’
Feeling relieved, Eli allowed himself to be led out of the room by Rafi. As they were in the passage outside the wood panelled room Rafi took out of his pocket the sound buffer. He switched on the sleek black box and then spoke in rapid Hebrew, ‘Red Cap’s in the visa section at the embassy, drunk out of his mind.’
‘What?’ Eli’s hand went to his scalp.
‘Says he won’t go away till he sees you. Says if you’re not there in fifteen minutes he’s going to piss against the gates and get himself arrested. What do you want to do?’
44
Hyde Park Corner, London – Five Minutes Later
The last time Eli had been on the back of a motorbike he’d been holding Gal around the waist and they were on holiday in the Peloponnese. Sitting behind Segev, the watcher, as they swung around London was a different experience.